I used to be a man. When we bought our first home, I watched episodes of This Old House and bought things like a framing square and compound mitre saw. Most importantly, I set out to find the perfect lawn mower. It’s right there on page two of the Man Manual: “Judge a man by his lawn.” (Don’t ask what’s on page one.)
I chose my lawn mower the way ballplayers choose the perfect bat, taking a few practice swings before stepping up to the plate. Unfortunately, I approached the grass like a minor leaguer: I just couldn’t find the sweet spot. I’d either cut it so low it roasted in the summer sun, or so high it reached my knees two days later. As a result, my wife went to the bullpen for relief in the form of a professional.